


and you turn me on (when you take it off)

by void_fish



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: clothes sharing (kind of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 18:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17330264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/void_fish/pseuds/void_fish
Summary: It’s PR’s idea.ORFreddie loses a bet. Auston also loses a bet. They both end up winning, though.





	and you turn me on (when you take it off)

**Author's Note:**

> someone on my twitter prompted "Freddie/Auston" and "jersey". 3k later... this is what i have. enjoy!
> 
> title bastardised from kesha's take it off
> 
> thanks to ellie for the beta!!!

It’s PR’s idea.  
  
Someone, somewhere (Auston suspects it's Monica, whom he loves, but she was responsible for that agonising hour of playing video games with Freddie and trying to ignore the way his shorts rode further and further up his thighs the more intense the game got) has come up with a _brilliant_ new series of intermission jumbotron videos.  
  
The whole team has been paired off, and each pair has been set a challenge. The loser of the challenge has to wear the winner’s jersey to a season ticket holder event at the end of the month. Which would be fine. Except when time came to pair people off, an intern came around with a ball cap full of names, and Freddie had closed his eyes, stuck his hand in, and pulled out, who else, but Auston fucking Matthews, written in tiny, curling script.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Auston was in the half of the team that gets to pick the challenges out of a hat. He crosses his fingers for something like fastest skater, or who can wear the most fashion forward outfit, or worst attempt at a beard.

(What? Auston knows his look is good, but he’s not blind, and Freddie could out beard him with one side of his face behind his back.)  
  
_Shootout competition._  
  
“Does this mean we both shoot on a goalie?” he asks, hopefully. The intern looks at him with more attitude and disdain than any intern should, he thinks. ‘No,’ he says. ‘You shoot on Freddie, and if he saves more than you score, he wins.’  
  
_Fuck_.  
  
-  
  
‘Why couldn’t I have gotten you, and had like, a first person to get someone off a tall shelf challenge?’ he asks Mitch over sushi, later.  
  
‘Okay a, fuck you,’ Mitch says, cheerfully. ‘And b, you’re just scared you’re gonna lose, on account of Freddie being awesome, and you being lame.’  
  
Mitch got Naz, and they’re playing Twister. Auston wishes briefly for that challenge, and then his mind drifts back to Freddie’s short shorts. Maybe the shootout is a blessing in disguise.  
  
‘Fuck you back,’ he says. ‘I’m not lame. I just don’t wanna have to embarrass Freds in front of all our season ticket holders.’  
  
Mitch cackles knowingly, and Auston has to put him in a headlock.  
  
-  
  
The thing is, Auston doesn’t know which is worse. Does he win, and have to look at Freddie wearing 34 on his back all night, like Auston’s been dreaming of for, oh, about two years now, or does he lose, and have to walk around feeling weight of Freddie’s number and his gaze in front of everyone?  
  
Maybe it can be a draw, and he can skip out on the whole ordeal.  
  
-  
  
Here’s the thing about shooting on Freddie: Auston does it every damn day of his life.  
  
One would think that that would give him an advantage. He knows Freddie’s weaknesses, like how he always feints juuuust a little too far to the left if a shooter gets in too close, or that there’s always a fraction of an inch extra space above his blocker than there should be for a goalie as good as Freddie.  
  
On the other hand though, Freddie knows every single one of Auston’s tells. Every. Single. Goddamn. One.  
  
By the end of ten shots, its tied 5-5, and Auston is running out of moves.  
  
Freddie squirts water into his mouth while the cameras switch up their angles.  
  
‘Tired yet?’ Auston asks, because the microphone clipped to his shoulder pads is still live, and he has a part to play here.  
  
‘Never,’ Freddie says, and lets his mask fall down. Both mask; the literal, physical one, lego faces and all, and the other one, where his eyes go a little dead, and Auston feels like Freddie is looking right through him. Mitch calls him Shark Eyes Fred, sometimes.  
  
(Auston will die before he admits that actually, it’s— kind of, maybe, a little bit— scorchingly hot. Just a _tiny bit_.)  
  
The puck gets placed in front of him by Carlton in a refs jersey. Auston makes eye contact with Freddie, and starts skating.  
  
-  
  
Auston is dying. Literally, actively, slowly, dying.  
  
He can’t help but feel like Freddie is doing it on purpose, but every time he sees him, his back is to Auston, showing off 34 MATTHEWS.  
  
Like Auston said. He’s dying.  
  
Mitch swans past in a Kadri jersey like he doesn’t give a single flying fuck. ‘Looking good, Freddie!’ he yells across the room, and Freddie glances over his shoulder and winks.  
  
‘You jerked off in the bathroom yet?’ he asks Auston, smirking.  
  
‘I hate you,’ Auston tells him, and takes another drink of his wine. Worst case scenario, he can get wine drunk and Uber home early before he embarrasses himself. Hopefully.  
  
-  
  
Auston is working on his second glass of wine when someone slides into the seat next to him.  
  
‘Enjoying your win?’ Freddie asks.  He’s rolled the sleeves of the jersey up and Auston is pretty sure he’s trimmed his beard a little. He looks _devastating_. Auston hates his life.  
  
‘Always,’ he says, breezy, and finishes his glass, accepts a third one off of a server almost immediately. ‘What’s it like wearing a winner’s jersey?’  
  
Freddie shrugs. ‘Looking forward to taking it off,’ he says, faux casual, but Auston is suddenly hyper aware of Freddie’s thigh pressed up against his as he leans in.  
  
‘I get the feeling you want to help me out with that,’ Freddie says, low and deliberate. His accent is deeper, all of a sudden, like he’s struggling with the language.  
  
Auston almost swallows his tongue.

“Uh,” he says, charmingly. “What?”

Freddie grins, leans in a little closer. Auston can feel his breath hot on his ear. He hates that he’s not grossed out by the smell of red wine and the chocolate torte that was dessert at the meal. “I’ve seen you, Matts. You’re kind of hard to miss, staring like that. You might as well be wearing a sign that says “can’t stop staring at Frederik Andersen”.”

Auston huffs. “I’m not _that_ obvious,” he says.

“So you admit to staring,” Freddie says, laughter in his voice, and Auston flushes harder.

“You have something on your cheek,” he tries. He does _not_ reach out and try to rub the imaginary mark off of Freddie’s skin, because he’s dumb, but not _that_ dumb, and if he touches Freddie now, it’s either going to end badly or nakedly.

Freddie arches an eyebrow at him.

“And I was staring,” Auston admits. “You— I like the way you look in my jersey. Like how I like seeing wo— fans in it.”

“Female fans?” Freddie asks. He scratches at his beard like he’s thinking.

“Like you don’t think the same thing,” Auston says. “The whole team thinks like that, look! Willy can’t stop staring at Kappy—“ Auston trails off, suddenly aware that using Willy and Kappy as a way to make this less gay and pining-y might not be his best game plan.

Freddie reaches over and steals Auston’s wineglass. “So,” he says. “Do you want to?”

Auston blinks, looking away from how Willy’s arm has snuck around Kappy’s waist, and— “Huh?”

“Do you want to help me with this jersey?” Freddie asks, patiently. He’s sipping at Auston’s wine like he has all the time in the world.

Auston blinks. Waits for the world to catch up. Opens his mouth to say something, and: “No,” he says, surprising both of them, he thinks. “I want you to keep it on,” he says.

“I can work with that,” Freddie says, and finishes the wine in one easy swallow.

-

Turns out Freddie wasn’t kidding even a little bit.

He’s booked a room at the hotel the event is at, flashes the keycard at Auston and starts heading for the elevators.

“Were you— planning on hooking up?” Auston says.

“One of the guys in PR and I sometimes fuck after events,” he says, _way_ too casually, in Auston’s opinion. “I got a better offer tonight, though.”

The look Auston gets after that is— well, its a good thing the elevator is empty but for them, is all he’s saying.

Auston opens his mouth, willing words to come out, literally _any_ words. “Oh,” he says, and wants to kill himself immediately.

Beside him, Freddie— sighs, Auston thinks. “Thank god you have hockey,” he says.

“Why?” Auston asks, and Freddie looks at him.

“Because your game is terrible,” he says, and presses him against the wall of the elevator to kiss him senseless.

-

Freddie is big. Auston knows this, logically. Freddie is a huge man, in both height and breadth.

In this hotel room, though, bracketing Auston’s head with his arms and kissing him hard enough that Auston couldn’t push back off the closed door if he _tried_?

Right now, Freddie feels like the biggest guy in the world.

It’s the first time Auston’s been the smaller one in a kiss. It’s not entirely unwelcome.

Freddie bites at his lip and suddenly his hands are at Auston’s tie, tugging at the knot, pulling it loose and dropping it unceremoniously on the floor. Auston would protest, because the tie is Givenchy and cost as much as this hotel room, probably, but he feels like there are bigger issues here, like how his shirt has _too many buttons_ and Freddie is taking _far too long_ to unbutton it. His lizard hindbrain is telling him to let Freddie rip it open, but. It’s a really nice shirt, is all.

Eventually, Freddie is sliding his palms over Auston’s ribcage, pulling his shirt out from where it was neatly tucked in. It joins the tie on the floor, crumpled but in one piece, and Auston feels exposed, suddenly, just in his slacks in the hotel room while Freddie is still fully dressed. His hair isn’t even mussed.

“Your turn,” Auston says, and tries to peel him out of the jersey. He’s not as coordinated as he could have been, fumbles at the hem and ends up just rucking it to his nipples. Freddie laughs, bats his hands away and pulls it over his head, graceful as he ever is.

The shirt underneath is pale blue, and it makes Freddie looks even more striking, makes his skin paler and his hair redder, somehow. Auston makes a move to unbutton the shirt and gets his hands pushed away again.

“It’ll be quicker if I do it,” Freddie says. “Why don’t you go lie on the bed, Matts?”

“You gonna put on a show for me?” Auston asks, but he does retreat to the bed, kicks off his shoes on the way.

“Maybe,” Freddie says, and starts working his fingers easily. The shirt falls open, and Auston’s seen his bare chest before, obviously, but it’s always been in a room full of other dudes. It’s never been like this, quiet and sensual and directed straight at Auston. Freddie hasn’t looked away the entire time, and his shirt flutters to the floor. Auston swallows. He lets his legs fall open a little, wanting Freddie to climb onto the bed, crawl up his body, but instead he reaches for the jersey again, placed over the back of a chair, and he lets it fall over his bare chest. Auston takes a breath and palms at his dick, almost unconsciously.

“This is what you want, right?” Freddie asks, reaching under the hem to unbuckle his belt, toeing his shoes off and kicking them aside so he can step out of his slacks, and then he’s standing in front of Auston in nothing but the jersey and tight, navy boxer briefs that do nothing to hide the bulge of his dick.

“Yeah,” Auston says, hoarse, and then nods, to make it clear. Freddie gives him a smile, and knee walks up the bed to him, leans in for another kiss that leaves Auston breathless.

“I think I’m gonna ride you,” Freddie says, into his mouth. “Let you see the numbers, huh?”

Auston stops breathing. He nods again. Doesn’t trust his voice.

“Good,” Freddie says, and then climbs off him. “Take your pants off.”

He disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a small bottle. Auston’s pants have been thrown across the room, and he’s freed his dick from his underwear, letting it bob against his stomach.

Freddie looks down his body, easy, appreciative, and steps out of his underwear. “Nice,” he says, and tosses the bottle at Auston. It lands on his chest with a faint thud. “You know how to open a guy up?”

Auston nods again. He might never talk again.

Freddie gives him a smile and climbs back on the bed, swiveling to straddle Auston’s hips, facing the foot of the bed. MATTHEWS is spread across his broad shoulders. It’s kind of intoxicating. Auston sits up enough to run a hand over it, and then, slowly, his eyes slide down to the bare skin of Freddie’s thighs, the swell of his ass.

Freddie leans forward, tilts his hips up. Auston clicks open the lotion, coats a couple of fingers. It smells distractingly floral, and he wrinkles his nose.

The first finger goes in easy, with Freddie sighing happily, rocking his hips. The second though, that makes him clench down, makes him make a soft, bitten off sound. Auston’s _obsessed_ with that sound.

“Fuck yeah, Freds,” he says, crooks the fingers a little, works them in and out. He likes to think he can feel the tension rolling off of Freddie the more worked up he gets, can feel it radiating out from under the jersey.

With his other hand, he pours lotion directly onto his dick and drops the bottle, slicking himself up.

“Do you need more?” he asks Freddie, who’s fallen forward, is on his hands and knees.

“No,” he says. “I— no, just—“ and he trails off, struggles upright again. “You’re ready?”

“Yeah,” Auston says.  “Yeah, Freddie.”

Freddie glances over his shoulder. He’s flushed bright red, eyes shiny. He smirks, and reaches behind him for Auston’s dick.

It feels like he takes a hundred years to sink onto Auston fully. He’s shivering when his ass is snug against Auston’s pelvis. Auston can’t move.

Freddie stays there for a minute, breathing, and then tenses his thighs and lifts himself up. Auston’s hands, slippy with lube, are gripping his hips, trying to hold him steady, but also grounding himself.

And then Freddie starts to move.

Auston has long been obsessed with the thickness of Freddie’s thighs, how much power he has. He’s watched him doing squats and deadlifts for two seasons now, and he’s marvelled at the sheer weight that he can lift.

Now, watching him fuck himself on Auston’s dick, it’s a whole different kind of workout. Auston feels like he’s watching a movie, a little, except for the pressure on his cock. Freddie is tight and hot and relentless, and it’s all Auston can do to just cling on to his sense.

He can feel his orgasm bubbling in his gut embarrassingly soon. Freddie is fully gone, hips pistoning up and down, and he’s making those soft sounds again, little punched out breaths. Auston wonders how close he is.

He doesn’t realise Freddie has a hand on his own dick until the rhythm of his hips stutters, he clenches down sharply, and he’s coming into his own hand, arching his back, jerking himself through his own orgasm.

Auston is expecting him to stop, but somehow, he keeps going, clenching erratically until Auston follows him over the edge with a cry, lifting his hips up to slam into Freddie, knocking him off balance until they wind up in a pile on their sides as Auston shakes through the aftershocks.  

“Holy shit,” Auston says, hoarse. Freddie is facing away from him. That fucking name is still glaring at Auston. His shoulders are shaking with exertion.

Auston worries that he’s killed him until he takes a long breath and rolls over to face him, grabbing his jaw and pulling him in for a long, messy kiss.

Auston falls into it easily, fisting his hand in the fabric of the jersey. They’re _definitely_ not going to be able to auction this one off. He’s going to have to replace it without PR asking too many questions.

-

  
‘You did this on purpose, didn’t you?’ he asks. ‘I _knew_ you let that last shot in on purpose.’  
  
They’re still in bed, Freddie draped over Auston’s chest, chin in the dip of his collarbone.  
  
‘I’ll deny it in court,’ Freddie says, dry. ‘You can’t make me admit anything.’  
  
‘Not even the fact that you got off on that just as hard as I did?’ Auston asks, because if Auston does anything better than anyone else, it’s shooting his shot.  
  
Freddie hums, leans up for a kiss. Auston obliges. He’s charitable like that. ‘Well,’ he says, teeth catching on Auston’s lower lip. ‘Maybe that.’


End file.
